


Haven to Skyhold

by AtomicPen, Dicheallach



Series: I will make it with you [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (not true enemies more like suscpicious neighbors), Atomic as Maretus, Dicheallach as Vanora, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:52:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicheallach/pseuds/Dicheallach
Summary: the snippets of scenes as Maretus and Vanora slowly go from strangers to something closer





	Haven to Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> a series of tumblr rp over the last several years of Dragon Age OCs and their unfolding story. archived here for ease of reading and for the enjoyment of anyone who wants to read.
> 
> find Atomic's Maretus at [molioanimatra](http://molioanimatra.tumblr.com), and Dicheallach's Vanora at [vintyvanora](http://vintyvanora.tumblr.com)

**i.**

Most of the time Maretus was fairly easy to find–training, getting armour fixed or weapons sharpened, relaxing in the gardens or the tavern. When she cannot find him in any of his usual places she finds a servant who knows where his room is, pointing her down the hallway and letting her know which door his is. Of course he doesn’t answer when she knocks.

Trying the door Vanora is slightly surprised to find it unlocked. What awaits inside, however, is much more surprising. The man with the suspiciously familiar accent lays in a bath that, even from here, is tinged red. She crosses the room in three easy steps, frowning down at the bleeding man with a scolding look.

“Decided it ‘wasn’t bad’ did you? I told you, soldiers playing off injuries is what gets them killed or sent to me with infected wounds. Come on, get up.”

Ignoring that he’s undressed and soaked she grabs his arms, hauling him up out of the tub before he can resist too much. He’s lost enough blood that he seems a little sluggish, his mind fogged over as he looks at her, clearly confused as to what’s going on. There aren’t poultices or potions, no bandages, so she grabs the bloodied tunic nearby and starts ripping strips of fabric. If it bothers him she can replace it later. Right now the wounds need to be wrapped so the bleeding stops. Eventually the fog in Maretus’ mind clears enough for him to stare at her and speak up.

“Don’t you knock?”

By then the wounds are wrapped tightly and knotted. Vanora looks over to him, frowning and sighing at the question.

“I knocked for a good minute. You’re lucky I walked in else you’d have bled out in the bathroom. Put some trousers on and we’ll head for the tower so I can properly see to those wounds…and sorry about your shirt.”

* * *

**ii.**

Vanora had seen the destruction of the Blight, had fought her fair share of bandits, mercenaries and darkspawn alike. Yet she had never been in the head of an all encompassing battle, never been at the heart of a war about to begin. Haven burns around her and she does her best to keep it together. Nobody notices when she uses magic to shove Red Lyrium infected Templars out of her way or pulls their blood to fuel her dwindling energy. She does whatever she can to protect her people–Adan, her patients, those people nearest to her that have become tentative friends. Everywhere there is death and destruction, battles all around her, and somehow she manages to keep it together long enough to get to the Chantry and head out into the damn snow.

Maybe it’s the cold or an ingrained response, but she goes numb as soon as they’re out of the burning town and traversing the snow to make camp somewhere safe. It doesn’t hit her until they’ve made a makeshift camp hidden by snow drifts and mountains. Damn snow. Her friends and patients are safe. Exhausted, shaken and most of them at least a little wounded, but safe. Vanora hasn’t slept in what? Three days? Four? It doesn’t matter. Nobody really notices when she stumbles out of camp, half falling into a snow drift as everything hits her. She’s more affected by the situation than she had originally thought. Unsure how to process it all she breaks down, breathing soon becoming uneven as she holds her head in her hands, half crying and half trying to stifle panicked noises.

Unfortunately, though really it is ultimately fortunate, someone has noticed her slipping out of camp. The hand on her shoulder almost makes her scream, Vanora jolting and pulling away from the hand in surprise. The face is familiar and surprises her. She expects the cool disapproval of her parents, a sneer that reminds her how weak she is, or something else unpleasant. Instead, Maretus just looks understanding. He doesn’t say anything at first, waiting for her to realize he’s not someone about to stab her in the back, but he looks as bad as she feels. There are blood stains everywhere, ash from the fires on his face, and still he’s come to check on her. She can’t catch her breath, shoulders shaking as she tries to stop crying and breathe normally. Maretus’ hand returns to her shoulder and his weight shifts as he crouches down.

“Just listen to my voice. Breathe. It’s going to be alright.”

And somehow she believes him.

* * *

**iii.**

From day one Maretus has made Vanora slightly uneasy. She knows his accent, recognizes the tanned skin and the ink black hair, and it makes her distinctly uncomfortable. Her own accent is hidden, and likely morphed a bit from so many years of travel, but to a trained ear, a native ear, it wouldn’t be impossible to pick out. She doesn’t go out of her way to avoid him, he is, after all, pleasant to speak to, but she certainly doesn’t seek him out. When he turns up in the tower, leg bleeding substantially, Vanora ushers him to the nearest bed and sets to work immediately.

As she pulls away the torn fabric of his trousers, eyes fixed on the wound, Maretus explains how he managed to come by the injury while out and about. Vanora nods, kneeling before him with the supplies she’s quickly gathered, and inspects the wound beneath the blood. Pressing a bundle of cloth against the wound to staunch the bleeding, she arches a brow at him.

“I suppose you didn’t think to make a tourniquet, hm?”

Lifting the fabric, the wound clearer without all the blood in the way, her brows knit briefly before she replaces the fabric.

“Hold this for a moment. You’ll live, it didn’t go too deep. Mostly just a flesh wound that’s bleeding heavily. The muscle is barely nicked.”

The man does as she asks, watching as she cleans off a needle, threads it, and prepares to set to work. Before she starts her stitching she covers the area with a poultice that should help to numb him a little. It will still hurt, but not as badly. Once it’s applied she glances up, having to shift back a bit so she’s not staring at his torso or knee.

“It’s not going to feel nice. But try not to wriggle around, alright? Don’t want me to have to cut out the stitches and start over.”

To his credit he doesn’t squirm much, hands gripping the sides of his chair tightly enough to make his knuckles go white. Vanora has learned to move quickly, stitching up the side of his calf before he gets too light headed. The wound is cleaned again with water, and elfroot poultice is applied atop the stitches. She wipes off her hands before grabbing the roll of cloth and bandaging it up, shifting closer to wrap it around his leg. Settling back on her heels she nods.

“That’s about as good as it’s going to get. And you get to stay here for the night. Can’t have you walking around and ruining all my work.“

* * *

**iv.**

Over time Vanora learns to relax around Maretus, to forget that his accent reminds her so much of home that she sometimes wants to throw her arms around him. It was a close to home as she’d been in nearly a decade after all. She wonders how it would be different if he knew who she was, where she was from. Would there be some unspoken understanding? Would she find a kindred spirit in him, someone who knew where she’d come from? They’re questions she would likely never have an answer to; even if he has suspicions of her, and she of him, they remain unspoken.

The weather in Skyhold is cold, as always, and bonfires sit scattered throughout the courtyards. People huddle around, telling stories, drinking, eating, and staying warm. There is camaraderie here, and Vanora is inevitably drawn to it–if only out of curiosity. Maretus sits in the circle around the fire nearest to the tower, the only familiar face amidst them. She realizes, as she slides next to Maretus to sit, that they’re swapping tales of fights. From the corner of her eye she sees Maretus glance over at her, perhaps assessing what she was doing there, but the question goes unasked.

Despite the fire she is still freezing, the layers of clothing not enough to keep her warm while she was outside so long. She should have brought a heavier cloak or put on another layer. Unconsciously she leans into Maretus’ side, seeking some barricade against the wind, another source of heat besides the fire that doesn’t seem to be doing anything. For a brief moment she feels him tense and she realizes what she’s done. But when he relaxes, so does she–he is warm. While the soldiers talk, Vanora starts to doze off, one story running into another. At some point her personal pillow and heater shifts, reaching forward for something near the fire.

Immediately she straightens, still sleepy, and realizes that it would make much more sense to simply go to bed. As Maretus returns to his original spot, Vanora no longer in his way, she leans over and places a kiss against his shoulder, sighing against his shirt as she pulls back.

“Goodnight, Maretus.”

As with all things between them, no questions or remarks are spoken. Vanora simply stands, says goodbye to the rest of the soldiers, and makes her way to bed.

* * *

**v.**

He is expecting her to fuss the moment he sees her spot the cut along his cheekbone, but he doesn’t expect her hand snaking out to grasp his chin. Maretus is startled enough that he freezes, breath caught somewhere in his throat, as Vanora steps close enough for him to feel the heat of her and smell faint lavender.

“It’s really not so bad,” he distantly hears himself murmur, his jaw working subtly against her fingers.

Her eyes shift from inspecting the wound on his face to look directly into his own. “Are you the healer here?” She seems to dismiss his answer before he can even give it, and turns his head again so she can get a better view. “Knowing you, this has cut to the bone somehow and will become infected and you’ll end up losing an eye if I leave you alone.”

Maretus doesn’t bother to stop the roll of his eyes as she scolds him. He wasn’t a healer, no, but it really was just a surface cut. It barely even stung. And he’s pretty sure that the blade wasn’t poisoned–he didn’t feel hot or woozy or anything, so that was probably a good bet.

He, however, says none of this and remains still beneath her hand. Despite the fact that he’s all fairly certain that it would just need a decent cleaning and time to heal itself, he… likes the fact that Vanora’s concerned for him. He also kind of likes the way her hand feels against his jaw, and her proximity to him is all at once delightful and too heady. (If he didn’t know better he might have thought the blade that cut him was poisoned, but at this point, he’s starting to wonder if the flutter in his stomach has much more to do with the woman standing nearly flush against him.)

After a few more moments, Vanora releases his chin and he looks down at her, curious.

“It doesn’t look to be too bad,” she concedes.

He hesitates for only a single breath. “Would you mind putting something on it anyway?”

If he hadn’t known her for some time already, he would have missed it, but as it is he catches a small smile tug at her mouth as she turns and starts walking away. It’s a secret little smile that he likes to think is reserved just for him (he doesn’t really know, but he likes to imagine it is).

“I have just the thing that’ll fix it right up.”                                                        

* * *

 

**vi.**

"Anything on your mind?"

“On my mind?” Vanora repeats, finishing off her drink and setting the empty glass on the table. They’d gone through a bottle of wine already… …another one. Did this make two? Three? She can’t remember, and it’s Maretus so it doesn’t much matter. She drums her fingers against the table as she thinks a moment. She had been thinking of work earlier in the evening, making a list of things she had to do. But it was easy to forget all of that when Maretus was around. The rest of the world could wait a while as they ate and drank together.

“I was thinking just how glad I am to know you. It’s easy to be around you, to relax and forget about everything else a while. Even if it’s only for an evening.”

Vanora shifts, her tone more enthusiastic, “It’s such a relief to be with someone who you can sit in silence with and not be uncomfortable. Where you don’t have to say something. There are no expectations–come as you are and enjoy the time together. How lonely my days would be had we never met. Quite bleak indeed.”

“And,” she continues, standing up. She leans over him, cheek almost brushing against his temple as she glances down at the contents of his glass with a grin, “I think we need more wine. Don’t move, darling, I’ll be right back.”


End file.
